Love is Murder
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dean knows his little brother would leave no stone-or grave-unturned to help him, but sometimes Sam still surprises him.


**Love is Murder**  
**K Hanna Korossy**

His steak sandwich was almost ready when Dean heard the bunker's front door open. He dumped on the onions as he listened to Sam's plus-size boots tromp down the metal steps…but, he frowned, were those two sets of footsteps? Huh. Sam had been super cagey about where he was going—which for Sam meant turning a hilarious shade of pink and tripping over some lame excuse about helping out a hunter with some info—and Dean hurriedly grabbed a bag of chips before heading out to see what was up.

Sam had indeed brought company home. And unless the hypothetical hunter he'd been helping had turned on Sam—okay, with their track record, that wasn't impossible—it probably wasn't the dude leading the way down the steps, a hood over his head and hands cuffed. The non-sigil handcuffs, which meant human.

Dean looked his brother up and down, but Sam was moving fine and there were no signs of blood or bruises. So Dean took a bite of his sandwich before asking, mouth full, "D'you go shopping?"

Sam shoved the guy toward the map table and pulled out a chair before planting him in it. He jerked the hood off, leaving the stranger blinking. His mouth was taped shut; Sam had been thorough, as usual. The guy looked to be in his forties, clean-shaven and in a slightly rumpled pair of chinos and a polo shirt. He looked like Mr. Average Joe, except for his eyes. They were almost as clear a blue as Cas's, but there was a darkness to them that had nothing to do with color.

"This is Otis Burke."

Dean flipped through his mental records as he chewed. Nope, not ringing a bell. "Okay…"

"He's a serial killer."

That was actually not even remotely the weirdest thing Sam could've said, and Dean felt only a mild curiosity as his eyes swung back to the guy. And a shiver of distaste and willingness to kill from the Mark, but that was nothing. Dean swallowed and then smiled at Sam. "You bring me the nicest things, Sammy."

Sam yanked the tape off Burke's mouth. Burke, who hadn't reacted to Sam's proclamation with anything more than a deepening scowl, flinched, then immediately began talking. "Help me—he's crazy! I don't know where—"

"Shut up," Dean and Sam said in unison.

Burke glared at them both with paint-peeling anger.

Sam dropped the duffel he was holding and slid the satchel off his shoulder to join it. Within seconds, Sam had Burke cuffed to the chair. "Don't move or I'll shoot you," Sam said flatly to the prisoner, and while Burke's lips compressed with defiance, he didn't argue. When Sam looked like that, Dean didn't want to argue with him, either.

Sam hitched his head toward the library, and Dean followed him over, taking another bite of his extremely good sandwich. They were both very aware of the acoustics of the place, and moved to a corner of the library where they wouldn't be heard from the war room. There, Dean set his plate on top of the nearest bookcase and leaned over to check on their guest one more time before he spoke. "Any particular reason you're making friends with serial killers now?" he asked mildly.

Sam glanced sideways a moment before giving in and grabbing Dean's sandwich, taking a huge bite. He just shrugged, sheepish, when Dean made a face at him. "I didn't have time to get lunch." His eyebrows went up as he finished chewing. "You're not even gonna ask me how I knew?" he returned to the topic at hand.

Dean could've guessed. He had an idea that Sam's flurry of research the last few days had something to do with it, and the two very long trips he'd made for "supplies" the day before. It hadn't even occurred to him to doubt that if Sam wanted to solve a human crime, he could, probably better than most seasoned detectives out there. But Dean shrugged, signaling his willingness to hear it.

"I took a page out of Bela's book and found one of his victims to ask."

Dean frowned at the reminder of Bela. That was one bitch he hadn't been—very—sorry to see dragged off to Hell. "And by victims, you mean…"

"Ghosts. I tracked down a few of the graves, and I found a ghost willing to talk to me."

Okay, that was creative, even for Sam. Ghosts didn't usually start out nasty and homicidal. Some lingered for a while before dissipating, while others hung around confused or determined for a long time before they went nuts. Kinda made sense there were some who'd stuck around because they'd been murdered and were happy to help someone find their killer. It was certainly a resource the local cops wouldn't have. "Smart," Dean allowed. "Still doesn't explain why you brought…Otis home with you. You know we can't keep him, right?" Or… He narrowed his eyes, skin crawling at a new thought. "Wait. You didn't find him for me so I can…you know. Let off a little steam?"

The surprise on Sam's face gave him all the answer he needed, and a jolt of relief. They weren't there yet. After an emphatic _no_, Sam took a breath and pulled himself to his full height. Here came the pitch: Dean braced himself. "Give him the Mark."

Dean blinked. Cocked his head. "Excuse me?"

"We can't just take the Mark off: fine. Let's find someone to pass it on to."

Dean blinked again. "Okay. Even if I could do that, which I'm not sure about, you know how ten kinds of crazy it would be to give it to someone who was already a soulless murderer?" He crossed his arms, feeling the Mark burn in outrage.

Sam licked his lips and leaned in. "Burke has killed eleven women, that I know of. More than half of them were underage girls out on the street. His M.O. is to tie them up so tight that they can't breathe. Then he—"

"Stop," Dean gritted out. Supernatural evil he could deal with. Human evil, especially against women, got to him every time. "If you've got a point—"

"If you gave the Mark to someone else, it would pretty much be an eternal death sentence, right? So give it to someone like him," Sam flung a hand toward the war room, "someone who deserves being buried so deep, no one'll ever find him."

Oh. _Oh. _Stunned, Dean stared at his kid brother, not even able to fully process the mix of horror, disbelief, and, okay, yes, hope that stirred in him. He rubbed the Mark almost unconsciously, trying to think through Sam's argument objectively when the biggest influence of all throbbed against his fingers, his soul. "Sam," he said quietly.

"It makes sense, Dean," Sam insisted, more desperate than logical now. "We did it with Doc Benton, remember? He was an evil that couldn't die, too. Burke is an evil that can, but if he takes the curse on, he can _fix you. _And tell me he doesn't have it coming."

Sam wasn't asking him if Dean thoughtDean himself deserved fixing, because they both knew Dean had issues with that. But a scumbag who tortured women for kicks? Dean looked speculatively out into the war room. They didn't hunt humans; that was where they'd always drawn the line. But was someone like that really even human?

Dean closed his eyes. He didn't want this. Didn't want one more person on his conscience. Didn't want to pass the burden that he'd willingly taken on. But what were the alternatives? It was looking like even Charlie had struck out on their one lead.

"Dean…"

"Okay," he murmured.

"Okay?" Sam sounded unsteady, like he didn't dare believe it.

He met his brother's eyes, saw the knowledge that they were damning themselves a little bit with this plan, but that still beat whatever Dean would become. And what he might end up doing to Sam if he stayed this way. "Okay," Dean repeated more certainly.

"Okay." Sam took a breath. He looked suddenly younger, and Dean ate his regret. This would be worth it for Sam's sake alone. "What did Cain do when he gave you the Mark? Is there some kind of ritual…?"

"No, we just, uh, took each other's arms, then he looked like he was concentrating, and it…moved. Burned like a son of a bitch."

"Huh. Okay. So, it just needs two willing participants, right?"

Dean tipped his head in agreement, then cocked an eyebrow. "How're you gonna get Otis there on board?"

Sam just gave him a look, then marched back into the war room.

"Here's the deal," he said to Burke, voice hard again. "You do something for us, and we don't tell the cops about your little…hobby."

Burke's face smoothed out; the guy probably thought this was finally something he could understand. He had no idea. "What kind of thing?"

Sam waved at Dean, and Dean took the cue to roll up his sleeve. The Mark stood out like an angry scar.

Burke grimaced. "That some kind of brand?" He huffed. "I knew you had your own game going. You get it. That's how you found me, right?"

Sam's jaw shifted, and Dean did, too, ready to step in if Sam lost his cool. Ironic, considering he was the one with the violent imprint. "Shut up and listen," Sam barked. "It's not a brand—it's a curse. And it can only be passed on to someone who's willing to carry it. You take it on, and I promise, we bury everything you did, literally."

Dean swallowed a snort.

Burke was eyeing both of them suspiciously. "What's that mean, 'curse.' I don't believe in that mumbo-jumbo."

"Then it's no big deal, right?" Sam pressed on. "You agree to take on the curse, and you can walk away."

Sam wasn't even trying not to lie anymore. Dean was torn between pride and dismay.

Burke thought about it another minute. Dean's stomach churned the few bites of sandwich at the thought of the nightmare almost being over…and what that would take.

"What do I have to do?" Burke finally asked, still wary.

Sam strode forward and unlocked first the cuff on the chair, then the one on Burke's wrists. Without asking, he yanked the jacket off one arm, exposing pale skin up to the polo's short sleeve, then looked at Dean. "You ready?"

"No," Dean muttered, but he was already moving. Standing in front of Burke, he shoved his own sleeve up even higher. "Okay."

Burke was shaking his head. "What're you—?"

"Do you want to do this? Or do I drop you off at the nearest police station with all the evidence I found at your place?" Sam asked, relentless.

Burke's eyes narrowed, but Dean could see the fear in them. He wasn't too surprised when the guy bit off a, "Fine."

Sam hovered watchfully as Dean reached out and grasped Burke's forearm. The man automatically grabbed Dean back. Then Dean focused.

He told the Mark to go. He imagined it flowing onto Burke's arm as it had onto his own.

"Come on, come on," he chanted under his breath, and heard Sam hold his.

"Is that—?" Burke began.

"Shut up!" the Winchesters snapped.

The Mark flared. Dean could feel Burke start. And then it quieted again, aching bone deep as if to underline that it had put down roots.

Dean let go of Burke and sagged back.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

"It doesn't work," Dean said dully. "I don't know why—maybe Cain knew something I didn't. Or maybe Otis doesn't want it enough." _Or I don't want it gone enough._

Sam's eyes looked wet, stricken. "We could try again. I-I could explain it to him better. We can't just—"

"Sammy," he said, voice rough but tone gentle.

After a moment, Sam nodded. Maybe sniffed. Whatever he felt was wiped away when he turned back to Burke and detached the guy from the chair and cuffed him again before either the killer or Dean could react. "Come on," he said coldly to the man.

"But—"

Sam elbowed him in the mouth, and Burke sputtered in bloody silence. He didn't even try to fight when Sam pulled the hood back over his head.

"So," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "You really have some evidence on him?"

"Yeah." Sam yanked Burke to his feet. "I'll be back soon."

"Sam."

Sam half-turned, gaze not quite meeting Dean's.

He wanted to say thanks. And that he loved Sam for trying. And that he wasn't giving up yet, and knew Sam wouldn't either, but also that they probably wouldn't succeed.

What he said was, "I'll make you a sandwich when you get back."

Sam's mouth wobbled into a pained smile. Then he frog-marched Burke back up the stairs and out the bunker door.

Dean shook his head. Only Sammy would bring home a serial killer as a show of love.

_There's _nothing_ I wouldn't do for you._

Dean closed his eyes. That was what gave him the little hope he had.

And completely terrified him.

**The End**


End file.
